


We All Need A Hallmark Ending

by auroralynches (teresavampa)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teresavampa/pseuds/auroralynches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know what? Let’s do it.”</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“You know, get married and have kids and grow old together and shit.” And suddenly this is all very, very real. Shitty smiles weakly, like he’s trying to play it off as just another joke, but Lardo’s always been able to see right through him, and she can tell he meant every word. Snow biting at her cheeks, she blinks a few flakes out of her lashes, carefully turning the question over in her mind. After an agonizing silence, just as Shitty’s starting to look ready to dive back into his car and floor it all the way back to Cambridge, Lardo finally manages to speak again.</p><p>“Are you proposing to me? After three months? <i>In the parking lot at Murder Stop ‘n Shop?</i>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We All Need A Hallmark Ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fictitiousregrets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictitiousregrets/gifts).



> It's Joanie(thesugarcookieday on Tumblr)'s birthday today, November 7, so I wrote her this ridiculous piece of fluff. Go tell her happy birthday!
> 
> Title is from "Rewind" by Goldspot.

It’s one of those strange, colorless days in late November, the kind where the sky is a low, flat, featureless field of gray, the mountains dull and black in the distance, the ground an unenthusiastic patchwork of dirty snow, wet brown leaves, and stony concrete. It’s 4 PM, and Larissa Duan, art student, hockey team manager, and, as of three months ago, girlfriend of possibly the first nudist stoner feminist ex-NCAA hockey player to attend Harvard Law, is scuffing at a crack in the asphalt of the parking lot and feeling her heart ride that sweet spot between worry and all-out panic.

Shitty had promised to come out to visit this weekend, and texted her this morning telling her to meet him in the parking lot at Murder Stop ‘n Shop because “it’s easier than parking in a campus lot brah that shit’s a fuckin zoo”. That part is fine with her--she doesn’t have any classes on Fridays, and despite the name, Murder Stop ‘n Shop isn’t actually an especially dangerous place. The problem is that she’s been here for hours. The problem is that it should not be taking this long for Shitty to drive from Cambridge to Samwell. The _problem_ is that he’s late, frighteningly so, and _not answering his phone_.

After looking down the street for easily the fifteenth time in as many minutes, Lardo yanks her phone out of her pocket and calls Shitty again. She hears it ring once, twice, three times, and is met only with his crisp, professional voicemail greeting--he had to change it when he started law school, and she still misses his old, profanity-riddled message--and a short tone. She leaves a voicemail identical to all the others she’s left, then hangs up and stuffs her phone back into her pocket. Hunching her shoulders against the early winter chill, Lardo paces up and down the little curb under the Stop n’ Shop overhang and tries to think of anything but the worst-case scenario. Unfortunately, her _stupid fucking asshole brain_ decides that means she wants to think about how hard long-distance is instead.

It’s such a cliché that Lardo wants to roll her eyes, but it’s true. Aside from her semester abroad, she and Shitty had never been more than a city away from each other in the three years since they’d met. During the school year, she could just drop by the Haus, and it was easy enough to meet up in Boston during the summer. Now all of a sudden they’re far enough apart that seeing each other somewhere other than a computer screen means a day trip or weekend visits at best, and with his law school schedule and her senior thesis, they rarely have the luxury of free time. The fact is, Lardo thinks rather ruefully, she’s only been with Shitty in person a handful of times in the entire span of their romantic relationship.

It would help if she had more friends she could talk to about stuff like this. The hockey team, much as she loves them, are nothing short of completely useless with relationship advice; Nursey suggested they meet halfway in between, like Jim and Pam did on The Office, only for Holster interrupt that that was stupid--he still hadn’t gotten over the 30 Rock versus The Office debacle--and insist that Jack and C.C.’s version of meeting halfway was way better. Within five minutes, an outright war had broken out at the breakfast table, causing three other students to file noise complaints and Holster to mutter angrily under his breath every time he saw Nursey for the next two days. Her art friends are no better--Claire listened for about thirty seconds before saying she should just dump him and move on, and Lara had been so consumed with the piece she was working on that she only mumbled the vaguest advice that would pass for answering Lardo’s question. Ordinarily, she would talk to Bitty about emotional crap like this, but lately he’s been seeming more and more consumed by his own problems, and she can’t let herself burden him any further.

With a start, Lardo realizes two things. First, she hasn’t worried about where Shitty is in several minutes, which is admittedly not that impressive an achievement, but it’s the longest length of time she’s been able to distract herself for in hours. And second, she can hear what sounds like his car in the distance.

Forgetting any pretense of coolness, she runs towards the sidewalk to check that it really is him, and _oh, thank God,_ it is. He swings quickly into the nearest parking space and climbs out of the car so quickly Lardo’s not sure he even bothered to turn the engine off.

“Jesus, _fuck_ , Lardo, I’m so sorry,” are the first words out of his mouth, before she’s even said hello. “My torts professor held us up for like a fuckin’ _hour_ , I swear to Christ, and then my grandfather--the dickhead one--calls to bitch at me about how I’m an adult and need to act like it, because _excuse fucking me_ for not thinking that being an adult is synonymous with having my whole goddamn life planned out down to my kids’ middle names and the location of my cemetery plot, and by the time he’s done my phone’s on like 1% battery and _of course_ I forgot my car charger and there’s traffic up the entire interstate’s ass, and--”

She cuts him off by pressing her index finger to his lips. “Shitty,” Lardo says lovingly, letting all the worry and fear she’d felt over the past few hours dissipate through her words, “if you ever let me spend hours thinking you’re dead in a ditch again, I’m gonna fucking kill you. _And_ I’ll tell the entire team your first name,” she adds as an afterthought.

(One privilege of dating Shitty was that she’d finally gotten to learn his first name. She’d been sworn to secrecy, naturally, and Johnson had texted to warn her she shouldn’t even think about it too often because, quote, “you never know when someone might opt for a narrative point of view that can access your thoughts, whether it’s first person or third person limited or just straight-up omniscient, ya feel?” When she asked Johnson what he was talking about and how he knew Shitty had told her his name, he’d just sent her an emoji of a “no littering” sign.)

Shitty gasps in mock betrayal and leans away from her. “You monster!” he cries, but it quickly dissolves into a laugh, and he doesn’t even pretend to resist when Lardo stretches up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

They pick their way between patches of ice to the shop door, which jangles cheerfully along with the welcome blast of warm air from the above-door heater. They take their time wandering up and down the aisles, pointing out weird or unsavory items (“Who buys hard-boiled eggs floating in water?” Lardo asks with horror, only to immediately be silenced when Shitty points out the condoms for sale directly next to a magazine edition about celebrity funerals), and eventually buying copious amounts of junk food and cheap alcohol. It’s exactly the kind of thing they’d do while Shitty was at Samwell, but something’s off. Shitty’s a little more quiet, a little slow to chirp Lardo or react to her jokes. He blames it on law school, the long drive, the fact that they haven’t seen each other in weeks, that they both know they’ll be separated again in less than two days. Lardo has her own suspicions.

They open the door to leave and discover to their mutual disgust that it's begun snowing again. Shitty wordlessly pulls out his car keys, clearly no more willing to lug groceries through the snow than Lardo is. As they begin scuffling their way back out across the parking lot, Lardo decides to bring up what she thinks is really eating at Shitty. “So… your grandfather called, huh?” she asks, twisting her wrist to let the plastic bag of food twirl up against her knuckles.

Shitty looks about to brush it off, then changes his mind and grimaces. “Yeah. He’s gotten used to the whole law school thing, I guess, but he doesn’t seem to think I’m taking myself seriously enough, you know? Like, when he was my age, he was already dressing and acting like he was 40, and since I’m not doing that, it means I might as well be a teenager.” He shakes his head, disgusted.

“Fuck that guy,” Lardo says promptly. “You’re kicking ass and taking names, and the way I see it, the fact that you’re doing it with a ‘70s pornstache and a floral snapback just proves how good you are.”

Shitty flashes her a brief sliver of a smile, but this is clearly still weighing on him. She switches to a different tack.

“You know, if your family’s really on your case about growing up, you could always play the I’m-in-a-committed-relationship card,” Lardo offers. Putting on her most snobby and affected accent, she mimics Shitty’s persona around his family. “Oh yes, grandmother, I have been courting the most exquisite young gentlewoman,” she teases in a windy, vaguely British voice. “As a matter of fact, her family has offered us a quite suitable dowry. I daresay we must seize this opportunity for property transaction--I mean, marriage--at once, before Lord… Baron… von Richenstein swoops in like the scoundrel he is. Quite, quite. Indeed.”

Shitty guffaws, sudden and loud in the dead, frozen air. “Y’know, that might actually make my family happy?” he says. “At least until they realize we’d be having a douchey art-hipster wedding in the middle of the forest like a coupla hippies. Hemp clothes and mason jars and all that shit.”

Lardo snorts. “What do you take me for, some Pinterest-browsing soccer mom? Dude, if we’re gonna have a wedding that’ll piss off your family, we’re _clearly_ inviting all my weirdest friends from Kotter and having a ceremony conducted through mime. Modern art is better at annoying people than you hipsters could ever dream.”

“Fine, fine, we’ll have your weird art house wedding,” Shitty laughs. “But if our kids ask why our wedding pictures are full of angry white kids in latex, I reserve the right to lie to their faces.”

“Not every modern art piece involves sulky white people in weird clothing, Shitty,” Lardo chides. She thinks for a moment, then adds, “That said, I think that part of this incomprehensible modern art wedding should involve signing a pact not to explain any of it to our kids until we’re 50. Y’know, add some mystery to their lives.”

Shitty grins like he’s about to try to one-up her crazy suggestion again, but instead he stops so abruptly she almost trips. He tilts his head, gives her an odd, sideways sort of look, and says in an equally odd voice, “You know what? Let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

“You know, get married and have kids and grow old together and shit.” And suddenly this is all very, very real. Shitty smiles weakly, like he’s trying to play it off as just another joke, but Lardo’s always been able to see right through him, and she can tell he meant every word. Snow biting at her cheeks, she blinks a few flakes out of her lashes, carefully turning the question over in her mind. After an agonizing silence, just as Shitty’s starting to look ready to dive back into his car and floor it all the way back to Cambridge, Lardo finally manages to speak again.

“Are you proposing to me? After three months? _In the parking lot at Murder Stop ‘n Shop?_ ”

The thing is, she doesn’t want to say no. Rationally, she knows she should--they’ve only been dating a short while, and they’ve spent most of that apart, plus she’s still not sure of her plans for after graduation. But.

But this is _Shitty_. Even if they’ve only been formally together since August, they both know they’ve been in love with each other pretty much since the day they met. Which is completely sappy and sentimental and embarrassing, and she’ll deny it with her dying breath if anyone but Shitty brings it up, but it’s true.

Shitty, not being privy to her thoughts, has apparently taken her incredulity as a rejection. He stammers, "Uh, yeah, sorry, I shouldn't have--I wasn't--you don't have to--look, forget I even--"

She cuts him off with a scathing look. "I didn't say _no_ ," she says crossly.

Now it's his turn to stare in shock. "So you're..." he starts, waiting for her to confirm her meaning.

"Totally willing to marry you," Lardo finishes. "I mean, not right this second, 'cause I have finals in a couple weeks, but--" The rest of her sentence is lost as a painful rush of air as Shitty drops his grocery bag on the ground and wraps her in the tightest bear hug she's ever felt in her life--which, given that she spends half her time with massive hockey players, is fucking saying something.

She hesitates for a moment, then wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder. She's becoming aware of a smile working its way over her face and the beginnings of dampness in her eyes. Around them, the snow begins to swirl more heavily. The groceries lie on the ground, forgotten.

After far too short a time, she reluctantly pulls away and leans down to gather the food again. "God, seriously though, a _parking lot_ ," she says rather wetly as she straightens and wipes away a tear with her free hand. "I mean, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most romantic possible proposal, you probably scored, like, a negative eight."

Shitty laughs as he picks up a wine bottle that had fallen over. "To be fair, it's not like I planned this," he argues. "It was a crime of passion, that counts for something."

Lardo rolls her eyes and chirps back, "God, Shitty, remind me again--do you go to law school or something? I mean, you never reference it or anything, so I just can't remember."

"Actually, that particular train of thought you can blame on _How to Get Away With Murder_ ," he confesses.

With a wicked grin, Lardo pipes up, "Actually though, that reminds me--obviously, this whole spending-the-rest-of-our-lives-together thing is contingent on you finishing law school and making disgusting amounts of money as a soulless corporate lawyer, is that cool?"

"Oh, so _that's_ how it is, huh?" Shitty grins and ruffles her hair with the hand not occupied by car keys and grocery bags.

“Hey, you know me, Shits--I’m a gold digger.” As she says this, she loops around the back of the car and slides comfortably into the passenger's seat. Shitty climbs in the opposite side and simply gives her a brief, loving smile, and somehow that's the best thing Lardo thinks she's ever seen. Before he starts the car, she takes his face between her hands and firmly, sweetly, purposefully kisses him, trying to communicate everything she's really feeling in that moment, without any of the bullshit or teasing or jokes. When she pulls away, Shitty carefully studies her face for a moment, then smiles again.

As they nose out of the parking lot and speed towards Samwell, his fingers effortlessly tangled with her own over the gearshift, she thinks he understands.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why this is in present tense. I have never written fic in present tense before or since this.
> 
> Yes, this is sappy and weird and horribly self-indulgent, but I think the most unrealistic part of this fic is probably the idea of Massachusetts getting early snow this year. The weather in this fic was based off my road trip to Cape May for Thanksgiving weekend when I was living in Massachusetts last year, but according to my friends in New England, it's actually been warmer there than here in California lately.
> 
> Anyways, if you haven't done so already, go tell Joanie happy birthday!


End file.
